Port Wine and Pink Lace

Gone are the days when I could sit across from a guy on a subway train and not worry whether he was an undercover vice cop. My seating preference back then used to depend on whether there was an orange or mustard space directly ahead of an older gent -- one not elderly enough to bring out my Elektra complex, but not so young that he could be arrested for sipping my favorite beverage: Port wine. Those days, I'd hike up my plaid skirt subtly the way I first had done in Mrs. Wilmer's class when Etienne saw my Wednesday panties, the ones with pink lace on the hem. If it weren't for my mother's addiction to buying day-of-the-week panties, poor Etienne would've kept on getting demerits for missing Thursday assembly. Luckily, those panty days weren't only lettered; they were numbered. Unfortunately, so were my mother's.

Back when flashing panties on a subway car or bus was still a safe turn-on, I would feel a fluttering in my pelvis and a tingling from my spine to my pink petals at the mere thought of enticing a comfortably older man into spying on my slick vulva. I liked watching him angle his head so that he could see my cum oozing from the darkness beneath my bunched skirt out onto my tan thigh. Those were the days when I could wear stockings without the fear of their elastic top bands rolling down to my knees.

It was like a game. I would count how long from the departure point -- in a tourist-ravaged hub -- to my suburban destination. My favorite memory involved a middle-aged guy with the build of the Portuguese who lived near the New Jersey station where he entered the subway car. He sat directly across from me and aggressively made eye contact. I couldn't believe how forward he was: staring down at my slightly parted legs and then raising his head until his line of sight was even with my buttoned-down bosom. I was his seated striptease. I slowly unbuttoned my brown tweed blazer, then the top buttons of my salmon pink blouse. The entire time we locked gazes.

Then his hand moved to his crotch and rubbed there as if he had an delicious itch -- a ruse for any suspecting or conservative passengers. He went so far as to unzip his fly and flawlessly hide his salient bulge with his jacket. By this time, I was so unbelievably wet, that any small shifting in my seat emitted a sound akin to two Sub-Saharan lips kissing in the rain. I could smell my natural fragrance with each flapping of my thighs. I was so aroused that I didn't realize at first I had my eyes partly shuttered and that my forefinger and index finger were slipping into my newly laundered pink lace panties with a tiny black satin bow on the waistband.

Leaning back now, I could see the man gyrating in his seat and his eyes narrowing with lust. I wanted so badly to moan, but I didn't dare. Then to our twin delight, the last two commuters seated on either side of him departed the subway car, leaving him and me alone in the corner. We had a fifteen-minute ride through a tunnel and then five more minutes until the train would pull up to a platform.

Shedding my blazer, I felt so long and lean. I had lost an amazing 15 pounds in six weeks and sustained it. I sensed that I was swimming in the new lightness of my body. I put fifteen years of modern-dance lessons to good use and splayed my legs so that I could point and flex my toes for his amusement. I kicked off my gold ballet flats as if that corner of the subway car was our boudoir. Apparently the sexy stranger was relaxed, too, because he was brazenly rubbing his shaft up and down, and leaning back just enough so I could glimpse balls as hairy as the chest visible above his white boatneck shirt.

All my graceful stretching, pointing and flexing had turned him to such a degree that his phallic compass was pointing north. I needed direction and followed like an eager driver's ed student willing to do anything to earn my permit. Not wasting any time, I peeled off my lacy pink panties, exaggeratedly stretching the front panel downward so that he could see how effectively my pussy had lubed the crotch under his glare. Exposing my moist nether lips to the air turned me hornier than ever. With dilated pupils, he stared at the panties' long journey as they left behind their viscous trail like slugs unearthed from a downpour. From my dripping pussy to my glistening thighs was an eternity. Slinking their way down my black stockings, from firm knees, past athletic calves, to sturdy ankles that had survived the inevitable sprains of a modern dancer's life, the slimy panties eventually reached my feet.

Leaning forward to step out of the soft, clingy fabric, I heard his sighs growing louder. I felt my gathered skirt rise, exposing the tops of my bare cheeks to him. Mopping the train floor with the damp, dainty pink panties as I languorously picked them up brought groans from his throat and the telltale rhythm of construction boots stomping in time to his intense masturbation. We were only three feet away from each other, with only the imaginary barriers of color -- of fear-based race -- preventing us from acting on our human instincts. If all I saw wrapped in his clumsy flushed fingers was cock, all he saw between my opened thighs was pussy. No White, no Black -- just two sets of aroused genitalia. Yet our resistance fed into the tabooed lust of two people who were a special brand of strangers: the interracial kind.

By now, the forbidden aspect of our interaction -- not to mention the misdemeanor of public exposure -- had me on the edge of orgasm. Cum was pooling beneath my behind on the train seat, and I pretended not to know what a mess I had made in the presence of this Portuguese stranger with enough hair on his face, chest, forearms and groin to compensate for the dark curly head of hair he once had in his youth. He was perspiring profusely now, as was I, and brushed his hand over the sparse waves of gray hair toward the back of his dome. I twirled the sopping-wet, lacy pink panties around my forefinger and then sucked the juice from my fingernail as the garment slid down my arm. That shocked him, as evidenced by his approval in Portuguese and his moaning in the universal language of horniness.

After tossing my cum-drenched panties onto a side rail, I returned my attention to his big hard cock. I imagined all the praise he received from lovers and his boasting of having the endowment of his distant Moor ancestors, like the Italian and Sicilian guys in my old neighborhood of Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, who called Black men the "N" word by day and then used Black lingo to try to bed me by night. Now here I was, getting off across an aisle from a Portuguese man possessing lips stained with Port wine. I was thirsting for goblets of burgundy liquid heaven in that moment, after licking the salty taste of cod from his tongue. Then he could give me language lessons until dusk by a robust navy-blue sea teeming with fish and octopus, before taking me for a rough ride up and down well-worn Lisbon roads on his rowdy streetcar.

Swimming in lube, I desired to impale my wet gash on his wood so badly, which my come-hither eyebrows conveyed. Convention went out the train's windows and into the dark tunnel, but my hands obeyed my thoughts. The left hand yanked a boob out my lacy pink bra while my right one rubbed labia swollen and throbbing. He and I seemed barely to blink as we masturbated at sea level, alone in our section of steel submarine and submerged in fluorescent lighting. I gasped, diddling my thick, wet clit with a strange fascination as if I were discovering it for the first time at the tender age of 16. Firmly rubbing one out with his sensuous lips hanging open, he seemed equally as curious as to where this daring erotic journey would take us so deep underground, so far from the 9-to-5 grind.

My groan on the downstroke had my admirer beating his meat harder. Was he my voyeur, or was I his? All I knew was that we were two free adults -- and that he was begging me to cum for him. Before long he was matching me stroke for stroke, totally ignoring the precum stain that his trigger-happy cock had shot on filled-out light blue denims. I had my eyes on that stain; I made it my visual target for a steady tugging of my clit's sheath. Hearing him groan and seeing him lick lips as succulent as chorizo were too much for me to handle. My mind was increasingly becoming agitated. My hands and legs were trembling. Legs shaking and nostrils flaring like a coke fiend's, he was ready to pounce on me for a subterranean fuck. The conductor's sudden announcement to "say something if you see something" changed his plans. The minor interference allowed my attention to linger on his turgid cock as its frustrated head cried cloudy tears on the graffiti-scarred seat.

This game was turning more perilous by the second. Each time I smacked my thighs together, they felt so slippery, giving me the guilty sensation of having a pleasurable kind of accident in my now discarded panties. Reaching into my steamy, dark junction, I heard him speak directly to me for the first time.

"Remove your skirt," senhorita.

"But I -- "

"I want it off, now."

"As you wish, mister."

And I flung my skirt two seats away. I found the most comfortable position possible and one where he could see every frustrated movement. My naked behind was skidding on cum with the locomotive's accelerated progression. I couldn't believe my eyes when he swung one leg around the silver commuter pole and began gently slapping his cock against it, shouting different phrases in Portuguese that in my imagination had no lewd English equivalents.

Drinking in each other's gaze, we synched energies with the intensity that we wanted to swap body fluids. Once we started grooving to a Latin rhythm in counterpoint with the train's chugging, his hands and my fingers were covered in cum. My firm booty was bouncing as if my seat were a trapeze. Nothing could remove my fingers from my clit and pussy, except for an occasional urge to tug a tit and then suck the nipple to really drive him wild.

Across from me, he was jerking off his huge sausage like his life depended on it, assaulting my ears with his brusque foreign exclamations again. Under salt-and-pepper thickets of eyebrows, he kept his eyes pinned to the abundant wetness in stripes and zigzags on my thighs and abdomen. No longer did I miss the wiry curliness of my black bush, although few sensations topped the friction of the untamed hair on my swollen clit as it tried to retreat to its hood.

To our delight, the train reduced its speed as it emerged into the next station. I wouldn't have known we were so close to my destination if the conductor hadn't made an announcement in his "Quiet Storm" baritone voice. The thrill of waiting passengers possibly seeing our corner caper from the platform sent us both over the edge. By now, we were on our knees in front of our respective seats, facing each other and moaning toward the highest octaves that burgeoning ecstasy would allow. Our spanking session turned into an opera when we climaxed, my Mimi following his Rodolfo. He shuddered his descent, and I crashed into his arms as if I could cushion his fall. That was the first time we touched, and we were erotically charged magnets.

Our train journey ended, but without the tragic conclusion of that Puccini opera. After the train came to a full stop, we noticed there were few passengers, but none of them waiting to board our car. Our car, I ruminated. It was our car; we had possessed it. We should have carved our names into the seats we christened.

As our Barry White-voiced train conductor made his obligatory announcement, we clumsily collected the last of our articles and exchanged an awkward smile. I saved my still-damp lacy pink panties for last, but after retrieving them from the side railing, I didn't want to put them back on my body. Instead, I wanted him to keep them as a memento of our special train ride.

Amused, he watched me press the moist panties, crotch end down, into his waiting palm. I bit my bottom lip at the sight of him clenching my panties, as if he wanted to wring them of juice. When he opened his hand, he caressed the fabric, traced the contours of the lacy pattern with a broad fisherman's finger and twiddled the tiny black satin bow. What he did next shocked me: He brought the panties' crotch up to his sexy lips and licked it as if his tongue was tasting my slit.

Then he returned the panties to me and told me to slip them on slowly. I obeyed his command despite spotting a young couple entering our subway car with my peripheral vision. I couldn't tell how much they had witnessed of our X-rated parting, but I was so horny again that I didn't care. Just when I thought he couldn't surprise me further, he reached for my shoulder as I was about to exit.

"Olá," he greeted, as if we were first meeting. "My name is Tomás," he said hesitatingly in English, in a gravelly voice.

"Hi, good to meet you. I'm Sandra."

Tomás took my hand in his and said, "Prazer em conhecê-lo."

When I glanced into his burnt sienna irides, I felt the corners of my mouth spread out to mirror his grin. He smiled at me as if he knew the secret behind all the sunsets we were going to experience in Portugal, with wine and lust seeping from our pores.